


A Rose for My Mother

by StrangeBlue



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: "I'm evil but I'm occasionally nice to kids", And also a girl, Astrid hate crew, But still a giggle box, Chapters are written out of order, Character Growth, Childhood Trauma, Cicero's a lot more than a walking giggle box, Don't copy to another site, Edgy? Maybe, Evil Dragonborn, For Me, For awhile :), Found Family, Gen, I never outlined so excuse me while I write this excerpt by excerpt, I tag in advance, I'm Bad At Titles, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Moral compass is facing south, Murder, Muteness, Mutism, Nyctophobia, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Practice writing baddies, Racism, Religious commitment, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Self-Doubt, Shadowmere is a good horse, Short Chapters, Sneakiness, Social Issues, Solve Problems with Knives, The Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Trust Issues, Vampires, Wait no wrong way, What bad guy questline isn't?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22947814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangeBlue/pseuds/StrangeBlue
Summary: Shadows crawl, blood spills free, darkness awakens, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.She was born into nothing, and then became a something. But even after then, she sought it out. Power. Pure, wrathful power and whatever she needed to obtain it.Fortunately for her, the gods were somehow willing to provide to a creature so absent of light.
Relationships: Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re a monster.”

Those were the last words of the first one. She didn’t think anything of it at first. Hardly ever thought anything of herself at all. But as time went on, she came to realize how true they really were. And how she did not care.

It had been for money, in the beginning. Nothing more, nothing less. A slip up as she stalked around the interior of a house in Whiterun. The woman had threatened to call the guards, so what else could she do? She couldn’t go back to prison. She couldn’t go back to Cyrodiil, not after just scraping up her freedom. She wouldn’t. So she didn’t. 

“You’re a monster.”

She was just another thief. But then she was something more. So she ran. Ran and ran until she was past the walls, out into the night until the brazier fires of the city were just as dim as the distant glow of stars. She headed northeast, up the river. The night was so young and her fur was so dense, the bloodstains became nothing more than a wetness on her hands. Another thing she needed to wipe away and forget.

The night is not quiet, as many are led to believe. Her senses bristled at every cracking twig or peeping bug. Through her enhanced night vision, she saw things peer out from the bushes. Glowing eyes on black fur, too much like her own. Soft paws stalking on dried pine, moss, and leaves. If she didn’t know any better, it might have been her own shadow chasing her down through the forest. The breeze whispered sweet nothings in her ears, promising shelter and shroud from those that might hunt her for her deed. 

“You beautiful, dark thing.”

“You _monster._ ”

She thumbed at the pommel of one of her twin daggers, feeling the weight of them pull at her belt. They were simple and dull. She’d had more luck with her claws in their stead. But they were there and dangerous all the same, if sharpened. Holding them gave her the brief sense of self that she otherwise lacked. She didn’t know who- what she was that night. A thief? A refugee? A murderer? One answer gnawed at her, raw. But she did not think much of it. Instead she pulled the leather hood down over her eyes and hugged herself tight as she trotted on.

She walked through the night, into the day. When the sun made its way over the ridge, it was warm and bright, and blinding. Her shadow finally reappeared, becoming long and deep. And her yellow eyes fogged and teared with fatigue. Through her blurred vision, she could see another city come into view. Soft, white snow layered on smokey dark stone. Sagging, crumbling on its miserable hilltop, sitting upon a miserable river mouth into the sea. 

Perhaps if she knew more about Skyrim, she might have turned tail and made way for Morrowind instead. But she was ignorant at the time. All the more when the guard told her that her kind was not welcome in their city. Ignorant and rebellious and quite stupid. She snuck in. Walked across the frozen port, onto the docks and into the lower slums, minding enough to pull her stolen cloak tighter around her shoulders to hide the ears and tail. 

“Have you heard?”

“That boy, is he really-”

“He’ll curse us all…”

Rumors filled her ears. Almost to the moment the gates shut behind her. A child- no older than ten years of age- was trying to have someone killed. Initially she wanted nothing to do with it, already having problems of her own. So instead, she stalked the streets, searching for stray pockets and dodging patrolling guards. But a small part of her still whispered ‘have a look of it. He is alone. Not one person here will help or heed him.’

Despite her best attempts at snuffing the idea, it still remained. An echo of something long overcome. She knew anger and sorrow herself, as a cub. With no one to listen to her cries. No one to lift the pain from her shoulders. If the idea had struck her, she too might have wanted to put blame on someone for the ache in her heart. Instead, she swallowed it whole. And in turn it festered. She counted her lockpicks.

“Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother…”

The chanting had neither started, nor ended when she cracked open the door and slid in. Even as she stepped up into the living space, where the shadows danced in a dark display. A silhouette outlined by candlelight, the dagger in his hand striking in time with his words. Pull up, thrust down, pull up.

“Send your Child unto me…”

His voice was tired. So, so tired. Each line was laced in whimpers and labored breaths. She glanced around the empty house, then to his slight, bent form. Wondering when he last ate. Or slept. The dagger sunk into the effigy again.

“For the sins of the Unworthy must be baptized in blood-” 

Her heart nearly stopped as the child teetered on his knees, raising the hand again as he nearly fell over.

“And fear.”

She crept up behind him, careful of the floorboards that creaked. The child then suddenly crumpled in on himself, clutching the blade tight and bringing his chin to his knees. His shoulders shook with muffled sobs. She was not one to help others. Only ever if there was something to be gained. But on occasion- On the very _rare_ occasion that she did, it was out of something else. Pity.

This child. This boy. His own people were right outside that door. Afraid of him. Afraid of what he’d summon. Afraid of whatever monster might knock on his door in the dead of night and deal its wrath to whoever opposed him. It was pathetic. She was not the person to help him. The opposite, in fact. She had half a mind to rob him and leave. That did not stop her, however, when she caught his arm mid-swing before he could begin again. He gasped, turning his head to face her.

“You’re here,” he cried, voice shaking. “You’re finally here.”

She blinked, staring him down and letting go of his arm. His features were pale and a bit sickly, but the wide grin on his face as the tears started was shining bright against the dark shadows, dim candle light, and gleaming metal. She raised a hand to stop him, before realizing that her hands were still crusted with blood and that it would not help.

“An- an assassin! From the Dark Brotherhood! You actually came to help me!”

There was nothing she could do to tell him otherwise. In his soft brown eyes, she could see her reflection. A dark furred figure with yellow eyes gleaming beneath the hooded cloak. She was already here. She was already stained deep with red, the gore clogged underneath her claws and matting her fur. She was already a terrifying sight, a creature of darkness, a thing to be scorned and shunned. She could have very well been a monster.

“And now you can help me kill Grelod the Kind!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chaptered little thing I'm trying out based on an old OC. Not sure how far in I wanna go with this.  
> Feedback is much appreciated!  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

The boy had been tired, cold, hungry. He didn’t know how to start a fire, nor cook anything to eat. But by the time she left, the hearth was warm and the boy was in bed and an address was scrawled on a piece of parchment, tucked away in a pocket. She made no promise to him, but took it anyway. What better way to soothe a child’s despair than to go along with their little ventures? Even so, she wouldn’t be in the city long enough to carry out such a task, nor did she really want to.

Riften was said to be a place of filth and squalor. What better place to disappear to, for something more than a thief? Morrowind lay just beyond, another way out, another direction to run. Another chance at a new start. She took the paper to humor the boy, nothing more. She would not chase down old women, she would not start another disturbance. She would not become a _monster._

Instead, she left the horrible, frozen city with what his idea of the woman’s worth was tucked under her arm. A silver platter, spotted and scratched with age. A small sum of money could be earned off it, if anything at all. 

The first thing she noticed when she entered Riften was the color red. Faded and filthy, blackened with smoke and covered with trash, it peeked from everything in the cramped city. The bricks of the streets, the stain of the wood, the color of the leaves, the rust on the gates. She saw a man with long red hair, she was given a pouch of coin in deep red velvet, she brushed past an expensive woman in a blood red dress. She tried to keep her eyes to the colorless overcast sky, but it was as though this city had to be drowning in faded red wherever she looked.

A long time ago, she had worked for someone who loved the color red. Stole for him, in exchange for coin. He always sat in the same alley, in the same spot, on the same red rug. He’d hold each gemstone, each ring, each trinket that shined up to the light, curl his lips back to reveal red lined gums underneath and hand them back to her with red stained claws.

“You insult me, cub,” he’d say.

Then he’d sweep everything she’d scrounged up from pockets, shops, and homes alike, hand her a beggar’s biweekly salary, and send her on her way. If she so much as bared her teeth, he’d give her a bruise for her trouble.

“Collect more, next time.”

She always did. It was never enough.

It happened to be that the address the boy directed her towards sat directly in front of the far eastern gate. Tall stone walls surrounded a hidden garden and in wrought iron letters, the name popped against the faded wood siding: Honorhall Orphanage.

The door was unlocked when she pulled the latch and it swung open almost too easily. She shouldn’t have, but she did anyway. Morrowind’s borders were open. It was early in the day. Just one quick look, then she’d steal a horse and be bound for the ashfields.

She meant to just peer around the corner, but found herself standing in the open doorway as the old crone snapped at the children, threatening them and spitting insults in their faces. On the other end of the room, a young woman wrung her hands in her skirt, clasping them as though they were bound with rope. Too helplessly weak in her manners to stop her, or more rationally, having grown up under that same tyranny herself and too afraid to speak out against her. 

She should’ve left. But she didn’t. Because the next thing that happened was the hag slapped one of the children across the face, hard enough to send them staggering to the floor. Suddenly rage, unlike anything she’d felt before, broiled deep within her. Something snapped, and then she was across the room. Then her claws were gouging at the woman’s face, her fingers digging into her eyes, her fists clutching at her throat. Someone began screaming, but she couldn’t hear them. She only saw _red._ She dragged the old woman into a back room by the shoulders and started bashing her head, once, twice, three times against the nearest bedpost until her skull cracked and caved and the room was splattered with blood. When she finally let go, her breath came shallow and arms were soaked to the elbow in red.

When she stood and walked out, the building was quiet, save for the young woman’s whimpering. She cowered against the wall, begging and crying while the children stood where they were, stunned into silence. 

“Murderer,” she all but wailed, shrinking into a ball as her shadow passed over.

She cast her barely a glance, attention focused her bloodstained hands, which had bits of gore trapped under the quicks of her claws. The adrenaline began to wear off and she fast realized that it would be best to leave immediately. She flicked both hands towards the floor, wringing them out and headed for the front door, booping a little girl on the nose as she brushed past.

When she left the building, no one cried ‘murder!’ No one came running with blades unsheathed. No one stepped up to slap irons around her wrists and drag her to the prison. There was just quiet, as though no one had screamed, as though nothing had happened. The blood on her hands blended into her fur and melted with the city streets. An everyday occurrence, a thing to be forgotten. Something about that struck her funny and as soon as she was past the red gates she was smiling. Then laughing. Laughing to the verge of tears. Because somehow, that had been _hilarious._

Later on, perhaps a night and a half ahead, a woman shrouded in shadow would place a dagger into her open hands and turn her to face a Khajiit man who’s sneering voice she knew well, despite the bag covering his head. She was just a murderer then, but as he died screaming, bones crunching beneath her heel and neck blooming open with blood, she was something more.

The Dark Brotherhood offered her safety, pay, and a place to go when the time came that she had to run yet again. And robes, decorated with a symbol that marked her as one of them, its colors as rich as blood and shadow.

She learned that red suited her well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being stuck at home tends to work up ones nerves when you run out of things to do. Thus, I actually finished a chapter. If anyone thinks the rating needs to change, speak now or forever hold your peace.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch, this one was hard to get through. Must've scrapped at least 600 words across three paragraphs and then some. Word choice was also a muck heap. Characterization got butchered too in some places. Can't say I'm the happiest with this one, but hey, it's just for writing practice and it's basically plotless so doesn't really matter that much.

Always the overachiever, she aimed to please her new equals.

She killed for them, and aimed to do it well. The robes let her move with silence and without restriction. The new twin blades glided over throats with razor sharpness, letting her claws remain cleaner. She moved with the darkness and took refuge in the night. Her years on the streets had been a boon, but only to an extent. If a victim saw her before their death, she considered it poorly done. She needed to be quieter. She needed to be quicker. 

For weeks, she practiced. She haunted the shadows of beggars and toyed with the fear of the sleepless. She perched on rooftops, watching torches dance underneath her as the guards passed by. A few were barely more than uneased by the night, but she would teach them terror. Just as a means to make up for years without a shard of respect handed her way. Fear was something she knew for a long time. Wield it correctly and it might just compensate for what the world owes you.

“What are you?”

The voice of the fifth had been little more than a gurgle, but the question still managed to bubble up from his ruined windpipe and dead lips. She paused at the question, shrugged her shoulders a little, then immediately buried the other dagger into his heart. She watched him jolt at the impact, then slump back in his bedroll and fall still. She wiped at the splatter from her nose and dragged the wet ends of both blades on his tunic, before standing and making her way over to the rushing river outside his pathetic encampment.

A small pool had formed among the rocks, the reflection of the twin moons rippling against the current. The light of the greater one tinged the water red. She dipped both palms in, first splashing her face, then drinking deeply. When she looked back down she saw a familiar shadow outlined in crimson light. Yellow eyes glowed underneath the hood, staring back at her like droplets of toxic serpent venom. So much like a shadow, a predator, a  _ monster _ . Far off in the distance, something cried out against the night. She did not turn, knowing that silence was the only reply she could give.

Though her contracts began to fall into place, she still felt like an outsider in the Sanctuary. She grew in skill and stealth, but not status. Each time she entered, the door welcomed her home. But she did not think that it could ever become a home. Not when she had been wandering so long. She slept in their beds, ate their food. But was left feeling empty and disconnected in their laughter and congregations. Out of place.

On quieter nights, she stared up into the dark rafters of the sleeping quarters from her bed, watching the shadows warp and dance through her night vision. Sometimes, she thought she heard a rasping whisper against her ear. Other times, a pillar of darkness remained a second too long. More often than not, she dismissed both.

When she was a child she saw things peer from dark corners every second of the night. Hunching in alleyways and crawling out from under furniture, their cold fingers and hollow breaths reached for her slight sleeping form. She learned that it was less frightening if she just sat still. Played dead. She crushed her eyes shut and pretended they weren’t there, waiting on the morning light. Only so many years later did she learn to use them as an ally, seeking them out while picking and thieving. Retreating into them each time she had to hide from the world. Now, she could almost call them a friend. Perhaps her only friend in this coven of killers. Then the jester came.

He entered the Sanctuary on a day she was out, the large crate already upright and in place by the time she walked in. He was short, for an Imperial. Second shortest only to Babette, who was trapped in the body of a child. When she looked upon him, all she saw was  _ red. _ The garb he donned was ragged and faded, but red. His cheeks were flushed from the cold. Even his hair was a blasted scarlet, almost falling to his shoulders. She stood off towards the entrance, watching the group converse. 

Cicero touched upon things she had never heard of, his shrill voice reverberating off the walls as he expressed apparent bewilderment at their practices. He spoke of a mother, meant to be honored. Of punishment that would come otherwise. For reasons unclear Astrid seemed vexed and her husband, Arbjorn, expressed hostility. Her eyebrows quirked beneath her hood as they both verbally pinned him to the dirt. Was this not the newest member of the family? Or was it simply all a farce? Respect must be earned, but so too must enmity.

“Sister!”

She flinched, her shoulders hiked up to her ears for a second before she caught herself. Before she could retreat with the dispersing others the jester called her over, his arms outstretched in welcome. Seeing no means of escape, she slunk out of the cavern wall’s long shadow, regarding him with caution.

“The family says that you are new as well! Cicero is glad to be not the only fresh face around here. Well, other than Mother of course.”

She tilted her head in question, before turning towards the front room where Astrid normally worked, staring at her silhouette hunched over the map table. Cicero took this as a spark of interest out of her.

“Ohoho! Silent one, yes? Mysterious, terrifying. Like the assassins of old. Cicero thinks he’ll like you. Like you a lot. But don’t mind the leader, Astrid. Don’t mind her at all. She’s lived without a Mother for too long.”

The last statement was spoken in a dark mutter, contrasting frighteningly well with his otherwise cheerful demeanor. Her ears perked up beneath her hood, her interest piqued at the sudden change. But just as it surfaced, it was gone.

“But now that Mother is here, all can be set to right!” he exclaimed, patting the box. “You have heard of our Mother, haven’t you?”

A shrug. The little man gasped, sputtering over his words.

“Surely you’ve heard of our Dread Father _at_ _least?”_

Another shrug. She spent most of her time anywhere but the Sanctuary, even time less engaging with the family. On the off chance she was within earshot of the clan’s whispers and boasting, the word ‘void’ echoed like a mantra. The jester laughed, less at her and more at her ignorance. Laughed and laughed and laughed, yet she had not said a word.

“Now that’s madness! Poor dear Sister doesn’t even know her own Father. Just kill, kill, kill without a care, hmm?”

To her, his words made not a sliver of sense. She killed, she earned her keep. There could not be much more to consider than blood, fear, and shadow. She sighed through her nose, turning to walk off and sleep for the day until Nazir or Astrid again sent her to kill.

“Perhaps our new Sister would like to know? Know the ancient secrets our Brotherhood hides?”

She paused, despite herself. In the time she had been here, she had been left adrift in the group’s beliefs. Their values, their laws, their standing- they either did not respect her enough to let her in or did not care to enlighten her. 

Even since first crossing the southernmost border, she had been ignorant of what to expect from this world. Had she not been so, then she perhaps wouldn’t have become a fugitive wanted by the Empire for crossing a dead border. Perhaps she wouldn’t kill for money. Perhaps she wouldn’t admit she enjoyed it.

It was a vicious cycle, the path she’d followed. Running and running and running until her stupidity got the better of her and she ended up for worse. How long before she’d slip up again? How long before her idiocy once again caught up with her and she could run no more? She wanted answers. She wanted respect. She wanted to know. She walked back over, towards the blood dark merriman and his blood dark smile.

“A curious little cat! Of course, of course!” he said. Then his smile deepened, voice lowering near to a whisper. “While I am Keeper to Mother first, I am Keeper to the Dark Brotherhood second.”

There in the collapsed back room the jester spoke to her in nearly a hush. Only there and then did she learn the true legacy the Dark Brotherhood had lost. She learned that the Night Mother whispered the targets into the ears of her followers, a soft rasp that only the most worthy could hear. She learned that the world once quaked at their name and hid from the night, that kings and counts alike fell to their blade in the darkness. Most importantly though, she learned the shadow- terror, helper, ally, friend, had a name. That it loved her like a father.

She learned that they called the Dreaded Darkness “Sithis.”


	4. Chapter 4

Muiri was… younger than she expected. Her voice was soft and filled with uncertainty, her hands were delicate as they handled the potions. Even in the dim lamplight of the backroom, she saw her wide, doe eyes pop against the softness of her features. She was barely more than a girl. 

Though she did not care what circumstances led to the contract, she was told to be polite, to mind her manners, to uphold a reputation when speaking with the clients. So she sat by, wordless, as this child poured her heart out to her.

A clan she thought to be family had lost their daughter, whom she loved like a sister. While wallowing in sorrow, a man by the name of Alain Dufont had taken her under his wing. Pretended to love her, before robbing the Shatter Shields of their abundance of wealth and leaving her in blame. The family cast her out. Muiri could never show her face in Windhelm again.

She told her this while wiping damp eyes and choking back the sobs, fists clenched tight in her apron. She confided in her the amount of hurt the experience had left her in, the betrayal and anger she felt when the Shatter Shields rebuked her, when she herself was mourning with them.

She however, could not empathize with the girl’s plight.

Where she came from, there was no family to find refuge within. If one mourns, it is done briefly and in silence. For when a person disappears from the streets they roam, it is to be expected that they will not return. She learned this early on, watching faces come and go, watching fellow thieves and beggars be strung up in the streets the day after they walked free. Most she never truly knew, but sometimes the ache in her heart swayed in time with a familiar body that hung from the gallows. She learned to let go.

It was easier that way.

With puffy eyes and a hoarse throat, Muiri handed her two vials of poison. They were weak, she could smell it. But one droplet on her claw confirmed that they were meant to be. A slow death, brought by shallow pain. The poetry behind their creation was not lost to her. She wanted to make Alain Dufont suffer. To make him die before he even realized what was happening.

“One other thing,” said Muiri as she turned to leave. “I want you to kill Nilsine Shatter Shield. Her mother deserves to drown in her own tears.”

She quirked an unseen eyebrow at the additional target, but nodded and left without so much as a second glance. While she had no qualms about killing the young woman, she fast realized what exactly was going through this girl’s head. She wanted to make them sorry. She wanted to make sure they suffered before death. She wanted to make everyone who ever hurt her pay in blood and watch as the rest were submerged in their grief.

Now that, she could empathize with.

Even after slashing his stomach open and bashing his head against the rocks, the man somehow managed to land a blow on her, despite his obvious inexperience with a heavy war hammer. The man flailed about wildly as the poison worked its way through his body, bashing the weapon this way and that. His barrage of unpracticed blows sent one of her daggers skittering across the floor, the knife he hid within his fine robes making a sloppy gash across her collarbone as she finished him off.

While he slumped to the floor, twitching and drooling as the poison kicked into full swing, her hand flew to her shoulder, peeling back the robes to examine it in the low brazier fire. If he cut deep enough, she could bleed out or lose her arm entirely. If his weapon was poisoned like hers, she could be dead in seconds. 

She poked. She prodded. She pinched. She sniffed.

Though it stung awful now and would come alight with throbbing pain later, it was shallow. It did not smell of poison, only iron. She let out a sigh through a jaw clenched tight, striding towards the great brass doors to the outside, where her bag was waiting. This was minor. This was treatable.

This was  _ close. _

Her dagger, she examined, was broken. Snapped in half under the force of the hammer. Until she could get back to the sanctuary, she would have to make do with just one. She could only further curse herself as she took an old sheet from one of the stone slabs used as beds and tore it into strips for bandages with her remaining blade. 

The cloth itched and caught, but it did its job. The potion Babette had given her went down thick and slow, like syrup. It tasted so strongly of herbs, she sneezed. But it did its job.

If only she could do hers right.

Drawing her cloak further around her shoulders, she slung her bag onto her back and hiked back down the mountain towards Windhelm.

The streets were as miserable and gray as the first time she saw them, the ice on the stonework having remained unchanged since she last saw it. One glance at the Aretino residence as she passed confirmed her suspicions towards the boy’s fate. He left. Where to, she could neither guess nor care. 

Instead she headed past the gray quarter, towards the city’s center, where a couple of Nord men yelled at a Dark Elf woman and a beggar sat idle in the street, asking for coin. Beyond them near the far wall, she saw a young woman with a basket of flowers and a solemn expression turn a corner. She followed lengths behind, watching her duck into the nearby shrine to Talos. She followed suit, pulling the dark hood tighter over her ears as a guard brushed past her in the narrow alley.

Within the cold, candlelit hall, a statue of either brass or brushed gold stood proud as the centerpiece of the temple, wax sticks and offerings surrounding his feet. Creeping across the tiles nearest to the shadows, she watched the young woman fall to her knees before it, her basket of wildflowers being emptied into a vase as a bouquet. Her head bowed in prayer and a deep sigh sent her slumped shoulders heaving. Seeing no others sitting within the rows of pews, she walked over on silent footsteps, kneeling beside her.

Though she was looking ahead to hide her face, she felt the girl’s gaze drift from the piles and piles of offerings to her cloaked figure within seconds of sitting down. She saw her jump.

“Oh, you startled me,” she said through a laugh. “I didn’t hear you walk in.”

She didn’t respond.

“I don’t come here a lot, so I’m sorry if I’m in your way.”

Softly, as though pardoning her, she shook her head.

“That’s good,” she said, nodding. As though she had spoken at all, she continued. “I lost my sister, recently. It’s been hard on us all, but my mother’s taken it the worst. I just came here to find some peace.”

She said nothing, but her hands found the hilt of her dagger, readying it under the folds of her cloak.

“Have you ever lost anyone close?”

As though she had been struck with an electric spark, she turned sharply and sliced her neck open in one swift move. Nilsine’s eyes were wide with shock, her hands flying to her throat to still the bleeding as she let out a wet choke. 

Almost gentle, she caught her shoulders as she fell backwards and pulled her forward to look into her eyes as she died. The life within them drained slowly, like water from a cracked glass. She bent her forward on her knees, over the altar as though falling deep into prayer and stood, the stone dark enough to hide the pooling blood for a time while she took her leave.

Muiri was startled just as the first time they met, her breath hitching when she drew near and placed two empty bottles in front of her. The initial shock on her face morphed into a smile nearing radiance. As she thanked her, her tone went soft in a way that she could not place, her lashes fluttering as she handed her the payment. And a ring, its purpose unknown to her as it was devoid of jewels and engravings. Near worthless. A simple memento, Muiri called it. A sign of her affection. It took a full minute to realize what she meant, though she couldn’t place on  _ why _ .

Only when she left did it finally dawn on her where Muiri’s misplaced feelings were directed. She was not in love with her specifically, only the  _ concept _ of her. She was dreaming of a dark assassin coming to her quarters in the later hours after killing her traitorous ex lover. Of a tall shadow whisking her away under the cover of night and ravaging her under the stars. She was a flighty child grasping at any given exchange and praying it to be something more than business. Something personal and exclusive to her. The poor girl.

She held no such feelings nor any such intentions. It was business and only business for her. Muiri was a fool to believe it as anything more. But she could not hold it entirely against her. Perhaps that was just in her nature, to seek out comfort in the darkest places, from the worst people. Teenagers.

Along her walk back, she dropped the ring in the Karth river, watching it sink beneath the current. Her reflection therein was warped, dancing with the outline of the greater moon.

She herself held no desire for romance. No want for intimacy or courtship. Those notions had been lost to her long ago, on the same wind that sent corpses swaying on their ropes. Even in the present, she did not find the idea so much as palatable. She vowed long ago that she would never take another’s name.

“Have you ever lost anyone close?”

She forced herself to forget.

“Monster.”

It took the better part of the week to return to the sanctuary on foot. When she finally walked in, her family invited her to dine with them, healed her bandaged wounds, and gave her a fresh blade to replace the one that had snapped. They embraced her. Congratulated her. Told her she’d done well.

Love was a thing she knew to keep at arm's length. She had a few material beauties that she kept to herself, such as the flutter of snow, the lapping shores of a warm sea, or the sweet fragrance of a peach blossom. People were different. How many times had she split her meager earnings down the middle for someone, only to watch as they disappeared the next day, through death or deception? She learned to keep both heart and coin bolted in, hidden away under lock and key.

This family however, asked so little of her. She gave them blood and in turn, they called her ‘sister’ and gave her their love. Madness.

Into the hours before dawn, she finally lay down to rest. From the upper bed level, she could hear her family congregating, their voices echoing off the walls. Down the hall into the Night Mother’s chamber, the jester, Cicero, muttered and giggled to himself seemingly without much reason. 

She closed her eyes and pulled the straw pillow over her head, blocking out the noise as she prepared to sleep into the day. While there was a sliver of a chance that she might open her heart again, a khajiit’s ears could only tolerate so much.

And yet…

She swore she heard one more voice. It was so faint, she almost didn’t hear it at all as she embraced long needed sleep. It rasped one word, something nearly lost and almost forgotten.

_ “Shijira…” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Done. Finally we get a name, eh?   
> The theme of this one changed halfway through writing it, she was initially supposed to be more cynical and bitter. But I figured that would be boring and predictable so I sorta changed it a bit? I dunno, she's still very Not Nice. Lemme know what you think.


End file.
